CHAPTER XII

Dartrey had been called unexpectedly to the north,
to a great Labour conference, and Tallente, waiting
for his return, promised within the next forty-eight
hours, found himself rather at a loose end. He
avoided the club, where he would have been likely
to meet his late political associates, and spent the
morning after his visit to the Prime Minister strolling
around the Park, paying visits to his tailor and hosier,
and lunched by himself a little sadly in a fashionable
restaurant. At five o’clock he found his
way to Westminster and discovered Nora Miall’s
flat. A busy young person in pince-nez and a long
overall, who announced herself as Miss Miall’s
secretary, was in the act of showing out James Miller
as he rang the bell. “Any news?” the
latter asked, after Tallente had found it impossible
to avoid shaking hands. “I am waiting for
Mr. Dartrey’s return. No, there is no particular
news that I know of.”

“Dartrey’s had to go north for a few days,”
Miller confided officiously. “I ought to
have gone too, but some one had to stay and look after
things in the House. Rather a nuisance his being
called away just now.”

Tallente preserved a noncommittal silence. Miller
rolled a cigarette hastily, took up his unwrapped
umbrella and an ill-brushed bowler hat.

“Well, I must be going,” he concluded.
“If there is anything I can do for you during
the chief’s absence, look me up, Mr. Tallente.
It’s all the same, you know—­Dartrey
or me—­Demos House in Parliament Street,
or the House. You haven’t forgotten your
way there yet, I expect?”

With which parting shaft Mr. James Miller departed,
and the secretary, Opening the door of Nora’s
sitting room, ushered Tallente in.

“Mr. Tallente,” she announced, with a
subdued smile, “fresh from a most engaging but
rather one-sided conversation with Mr. Miller.”

Nora was evidently neither attired nor equipped this
afternoon for a tea party at Claridge’s.
She wore a dark blue princess frock, buttoned right
up to the throat. Her hair was brushed straight
back from her head, revealing a little more completely
her finely shaped forehead. She was seated before
a round table covered with papers, and Tallente fancied,
even as he crossed the threshold, that there was an
electric atmosphere in the little apartment, an impression
which the smouldering fire in her eyes, as she glanced
up, confirmed. The change in her expression,
however, as she recognised her visitor, was instantaneous.
A delightful smile of welcome chased away the sombreness
of her face.

“My dear man,” she exclaimed, “come
and sit down and help me to forget that annoying person
who has just gone out!”